


Alas, poor ghost!

by holographic_charizard



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Batkids Age Reversal, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Dick Grayson is Robin, Gen, Ghost Dick Grayson, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Protective Jason Todd, Sort Of, Young Dick Grayson, author said fuck it ghost Dick, he's trying I promise, it's a ghost au baby, minor description of death, no beta since 2002
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:28:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26689684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holographic_charizard/pseuds/holographic_charizard
Summary: "Dick is lost, the kind of lost he most certainly has never been before, and he’s not sure how to get back. Or, really, where back is, because he’s pretty sure that he’s dead, been tenderized with a baseball bat and left to lie in an ever growing pile of his own blood, so he probably can’t go back to the manor."Or, the one in which Two-Face actually succeeds in killing the first Robin and things go a little differently (i.e. Dick Grayson is both a ghost /and/ the best thing that has ever happened to Jason Todd).
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd
Comments: 25
Kudos: 149





	1. chapter one

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! This idea has been rattling around in my head for ages so I figured I might as well turn it into a little something. Let me know how ya'll feel about it if you want (also the title is from Hamlet because I'm unoriginal and quite enjoy the homoeroticism of that play)

Dick is lost, the kind of lost he most certainly has never been before, and he’s not sure how to get back. Or, really, where back _is,_ because he’s pretty sure that he’s dead, been tenderized with a baseball bat and left to lie in an ever growing pile of his own blood, so he probably can’t go back to the manor. But he’s also still… _somewhere_ , and he’s relatively certain that it’s not heaven, what with its low hanging rain clouds and swaying fields of some kind of easy crop, wheat probably, maybe barley. And wasn’t heaven supposed to be pretty? filled with singing and harps and sparkling white things? No, it couldn’t be heaven, not this grey, lonely place, this _parentless_ place. He can feel the prick of tears push against the backs of his eyes, insistent in their quest to fall, and Dick leans his head up towards the colorless sky and pleads with them to stay _put_. He’s fine, he’s just lost. And ten years old and dead and about to cry because he thought that he’d be able to see them now, that he wouldn’t have to miss them anymore because what happened to them happened to him too so they should all be _together again_. A tear, emboldened, perhaps, by Dick’s helplessness, takes a final bow before flinging itself from his eye and barreling down his cheek like it wants to win some imaginary race. More follow the first, charging toward the edge of his chin until Dick has to take off his domino, the tears needing some place to go, and the adhesive of it rips at the skin around his eyes. It hurts, and he rubs frantically at his face as more tears begin to fall, frustrated at himself for crying because he’s _Robin_ for chrissake, he’s not supposed to cry at silly things like pulling off a bandaid or getting lost, he’s supposed to be brave, to puff his chest out at danger and laugh in its face. But G-d, he just wants to go home. He wants to feel Bruce’s arms around him as he carries him up from the cave and into bed, to feel him linger by his side like he wants to stay with him, wants to feel the tentative press of his fingers against his forehead as he brushes the hair out of his eyes. He wants to wake up to the stream of light that always pulls him out of a dream too early because Bruce never closes the curtains right. He wants to slide down the banister on his way to the kitchen and smile his big performers smile when Alfred tells him ever so politely that gentlemen don’t generally use historic architecture as gym equipment. He wants to sit on the counter and talk with Bruce about the previous nights patrol, even though it goes against Alfred’s rather strict rule of no cape talk upstairs. He wants to be at _home_ , not in the middle of some big, silent field that doesn’t feel like earth or heaven or _anything_ really, except, maybe, like waiting.

Dick shakes his head, his eyes scrunching up as he does, and sets his shoulders straight. He needs to focus, to devise some sort of ingenious plan that will save him from whatever this is and make even the worlds greatest detective proud. There are smears of snot rubbed all along his hands and wrists and he absently wipes them off on his tunic, turning in a full circle for the first time since he’s been here as he does, taking full stock of his surroundings. The field is almost entirely empty, the space occupied by the tops of dancing crop and an expansive, muted sky. Sitting starkly against the miserable expanse of nothingness however, is a single caravan parked with its canopy up, the curtains of it flapping in a wind that Dick can’t feel. He feels like he’s been kicked in the chest, and he’s moving before he gets the chance to think that this is all so strange, because that’s _their_ trailer! The one with warn kitchen counters and impeccably clean floors. The one with the single pull out bed that was always warm, always full and safe and restful. _Its theirs!_

He gets to it faster than the distance would have suggested, his family home seeming to have rushed forward to meet him, and Dick can feel his legs begin to shake, despite the relatively short duration of his run. The door is open, held wide with his dat’s old white vinyl suitcase, and the light from inside pours out onto the surrounding field, coloring the blankness with a warmth that is almost hard for Dick to look at. He wants nothing more than to climb the metal stairs and hear the sound his boots would make on the linoleum floors, but it feels like his legs have been buried deep in the soil beneath him, holding him solid to the ground, just out of reach of the light. He can feel the tears start to stir again and he groans.

“Mama? Dat? I’m a little lost, and I’d _really_ like to get back home before breakfast,” Dick scratches the back of his neck, feeling shy and a little silly, “wherever home is now I guess. Can, I mean, is there any way you could… you could show me how to get there?” He doesn’t move, can’t move, not with the dirt holding him steady, and waits for an answer.

“Dickie,” the voice, low and unfamiliar, washes over him like the nice shower in Bruce’s bathroom and Dick can feel it pulling at him, can feel its tendrils palming like fingers at the fabric of his costume as it croons: “come inside bub, you’ll catch your death out there.”

The little soft hairs on the back of his neck rise to attention, the water of the shower turning white hot, and Dick _runs_ , his arms flailing out behind him to grab his cape and pull it taut against his thin shoulders as he does. He knows that he’s supposed to be brave, supposed to look at his fear and push passed it, but he just _can’t_ go into that trailer and stand there, the toes of his green pixie boots touching the toes of that voice, and let himself be tugged into its arms.

—

Jason sighs hard, his breath puffing up against the faceplate of his mask. He hates helping.

“Well,” Jason says, voice casually dismissive as he pulls himself up from the fire escape he’d been crouching on, “you can probably get _him_ with that sort of stuff, but I’ve been around the block a couple times.” The goon holding the brat by the back of the neck stumbles, his top lip falling to cover his big, chipped front tooth as the smile melts from his face. Good, Jason thinks, if he’s going to waste his precious time saving this kid from being crushed under huge, unforgiving hands at least he won’t have to also look at some guys gross teeth.

The guy seems to recover from his shock pretty quickly though, judging by how fast he is to pull a gun out from god knows where and press it to the kid’s temple, some sort of retort, or demand, heavy on his lips. A bullet to the thigh shuts him down pretty fast though, so Jason doesn’t get the chance to be enlightened by him, and securing his bound hands to the vent in the center of the roof is quick work.

“There,” he mutters, patting the man lightly on the cheek, “all packed up and ready for dad.”

He’s ready to go after that, to shoot his line over to the next building and get _out of there_ as fast as he can while still holding onto some semblance of cool, but of course he can’t just _do_ that. Nothing’s ever easy, is it?

“Come _on_ Jay,” the boy standing next to him, who has been blissfully quiet since they’ve been here, drawls, voice high pitched and young, “what’s a few extra minutes gonna do to you, huh?” He crosses his arms and waits for a moment, tapping his foot against the rubber pellets scattered across the rooftop like he’s impatient, “exactly, nothin’.”

Jason could very well ignore him and do as he pleases, except he’s following after the kid like a lost puppy before he can think about doing anything else. Fucking Dick Grayson.

“Hey replacement.” Jason says, voice uncomfortably tight as he walks over to Tim, who has yet to get up from his place on the floor. Dick is kneeling over him, hands placed so close to him that if Jason didn’t know any better he’d think that they were really touching. Jason waits for Tim to answer, but all he gets is a small huff of air that sounds like it hurts. Dick lifts his head up at Jason and mouths for him to go on, his hands shifting a little as he does, and they go right through Tim’s shoulder.

“You okay?” The sounds of his footsteps feel too loud in his ears and he wonders if he’s making things worse somehow, “Bats is coming to get ya, but I, I mean I wouldn’t mind staying here while we wait?” He says the last part like it’s a question and Jason couldn’t feel more out of his depth, standing a foot away from the crumpled form of his sort-of-brother, a soft wind slipping around them and playing at their clothes. Dick’s still looking at him, and when he notices that he’s got Jason’s attention he gives him a thumbs up and smiles with all his teeth. Jason flips him off and feels like a maniac for it. He walks over to the two of them and sits by Tim’s head, shielding it from the wind, and waits for Bruce.

—

Dick is in a mood by the time they get to the apartment, his fingers seeking out the moulding that stretches like a belt around the middle of the room as soon as he steps through the door, body moving through the T.V. stand by their new plant like its not even there.

“Dick,” Jason says, taking his helmet off and tossing it onto the couch, “Dickie,” he says again, voice carefully calm as he makes his way over to his little-big brother, “would you stop doing that and listen to me?” Dick doesn’t stop moving, fingers digging into the wall a little harder, but his head tilts toward him, open. “We don’t have to hang around when he’s doing his thing y’know. I don’t like it either.”

Dick’s voice is quiet when he speaks, like he doesn’t want anybody to hear him, but Jason’s spent enough time with Dick to know when to listen to him. “I wish I could sit on his shoulders.”

Jason forgets sometimes that Dick was only ten when he died; it’s so easy to look past his meager height and baby face when he’s doing advanced mathematics for a job or watching Family Guy at three a.m. But then, sometimes, he’ll say shit like that and Jason’ll remember that he never got to finish growing up. That it doesn’t really matter that he came back to the land of the living because he didn’t really. He didn’t get the luxury of being resurrected like Jason did, doesn’t get the luxury of getting older, of touching and talking to people who aren’t Jason, who isn’t that great of company anyway. Dick didn’t get to _finish_ and Jason doesn’t know what to do.

“Would it be better if he know you were here, but couldn’t see you? Couldn’t touch you? We talked about this, it’ll just hurt more.” Jason is sure he’s said more eloquent things before, but he’s not sure what else to say. Dick’s just got some bumluck.

“I guess,” Dick says, kicking his foot gently against the wall, frowning when it doesn’t make a sound, “could we look for a way to make me go away than? Like, to disappear?” His voice isn’t sorrowful, not like how Jason is feeling all of a sudden, it’s just a little tired, like he needs a nap.

“No.” Jason’s voice is rough and he’s starting to get angry. How could Dick want to leave him now that he’s gone and made himself a fixture in his life? If he didn’t want to be here he shouldn’t have made such an effort to endear himself to Jason: shouldn’t have started staying up with Jason when he woke up with nightmares that left him tasting green, shouldn’t have started preforming little gymnastic routines around the apartment to make Jason smile, shouldn’t have started tagging along with him on patrol to back him up in a way that didn’t make Jason’s heart seize because he couldn’t just _die on him_. If he hadn’t planned on staying, he shouldn’t have come at all.

Dick just rolls his eyes and sighs all dramatic, glancing at the space on either side of him before springing at Jason with all his might. Instinctually, Jason reaches out and catches him, hefting him up to get a better grip once Dick get’s his legs wrapped around his middle. He giggles into his neck, his breath beating almost naturally against his skin, and Jason can’t help but laugh with him, because who doesn’t laugh when Dick does? It seems to Jason that that would be some sort of sacrilege, denying Dick like that. And Jason feels a little better, standing in the living room of a safe house that doesn’t feel as cold as it probably should, Dick a real, solid weight in his arms, his anger boiling down into something closer to his baseline simmer, because Dick won’t really leave him, he won’t.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's some exposition for y'all. also, thanks so much for reading! it makes me so so happy to see that people are liking some dumb thing I made so that I don't have to do school work. 
> 
> T.W. for this chapter: insinuation of child abuse and suicide, its mostly implied but I just want to make sure everybody feels safe
> 
> enjoy!

“Can we watch Spaceballs?” Dick asks from his spot on the couch, legs dangling off its sagging armrest. He’s kicking his feet back and forth gently, like he’s trying to gain enough momentum to swing himself up and into the air, and Jason can almost imagine the soft thump thump thump the heels of his sneakers hitting the upholstered wood would make.

“We watched it last night,” Jason sighs, and he sure has been doing that a lot, hasn’t he?

“But it’s my _day_ Jason, my _day_. If I wanna watch Mel Brooks waddle around in gold face paintfor the fourth night in a row I can. Those are the rules,” Dick says, voice tinged with an air of haughty finality that only the young can achieve. He shifts a little after he’s finished talking, his head rolling to the side so that he can look at Jason through the gaps in his hair, and Jason can feel his (rather weak) resolve start to peel away in neat little sheets until he’s getting up and grabbing the remote control. So what? sometimes you have to bend to the will of your sweet, manipulative, dead little brother, that’s just how it works. Besides, it _is_ his day, and Jason would rather suffer through dinner at Mrs. Rosenthal’s cat piss infused apartment than break a promise.

Dick pumps his fist in the air, whoops, and cries out an ‘all right!’ in victory, his eyes going bright like he’s been given something much better than the opportunity to watch a movie on their grainy curbside T.V.

“Alright, alright, you’re welcome,” Jason says, a small smile tugging at the lines in his face despite his best efforts. “Now be quiet, I’m watching.”

—

Jason thought that the worst thing he could ever be was the first Robin’s replacement, when Batman still couldn’t look at his costume, sitting stagnant in its glass case in the center of the cave, green and red cast in a golden light like some sort of beacon in the dreary darkness, legacy so huge Jason could barely make a dent in its shadow. But then he was dead too, and that was worse.

Except he didn’t stay dead, not like Dick, and that, _that_ , was the worst of all.

The first time they’d met after he’d emerged from the pit, Jason had been ready to fight. He’d been ready to scream and accuse and _hurt_ (How could you let this happen again? How could you not be there? _How could you?_ ) He’d been ready for Bruce to be condescending, to be angry, to be distant, always distant, but he hadn’t been ready for his face. Hadn’t been ready for the way it had twisted into something gruesome behind the cowl, body so filled with sorrow and _fury_ that it seemed to transform itself into a new man, one who wanted his son back, not _Jason._

So when he got back to his safe house that night, back tooth missing, he’d thought about how being the first Robin’s replacement was probably the best thing he’d ever been, ever would be, really, and walked directly into the bathroom to run himself a bath.

He was under the sink, looking for the hair dryer, when he’d heard a small shuffle behind him. It was a subtle thing, an accidental slip of one foot against the other, far too quiet for somebody other than a person trained to hear such things to pick up on, and it made Jason still his hands. He didn’t stand up, just kept on crouching on the bathroom floor like it wasn’t painfully obvious that he knew someone was in the room with him. Then, like the intruder had come to some great realization, they let out an almost comically loud gasp that had Jason tilting his head like a fucking golden retriever. That’s when they pounced, two little hands grabbing onto the back of his jacket and tugging at it hard.

“What the fu-”

“You can see me!” The intruder wailed, voice high and desperate in a way that made Jason’s heart beat hard against his breastplate. He moved quickly after that, pressing his shoulder blades together and rolling them back out so that his jacket, and the hands holding onto it, could slip off of him. Then he was whipping around to face whoever it was that had been squatting in his safe house, hands raised in a gesture that was more pacifying than was probably warranted, and Jason didn’t know what to do after that. Because that was a _child_ standing in front of him, looking down at the jacket in his hands almost reverently, a child who he’d _seen_ before, hung up above the archway of Bruce’s study back at the manor, smiling too big for the propriety of a commissioned portrait. 

“What the fuck?” Jason called again, indignant. That was Dick fucking Grayson, his predecessor in all things, death included, looking up at him now, dark hair wild and just on the wrong side of too long.

“You sure do curse a lot, huh,” the boy, Dick, said, swinging the leather jacket over his shoulder casually. “Anyway,” he rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, “I’m Dick Grayson.” He extended his hand here, poised to shake, and Jason very pointedly looked at his outstretched hand and kept his own close to his sides.

“Right, that’s all well and good, but you’re supposed to be dead, so either I’ve lost my mind completely or you’re an evil little kid.”

“Hey!” Dick had the audacity to sound offended, “I _am_ dead. I’m just… a little stuck.”

“Right, okay, so, you’re a ghost?” Jason said, laughter bleeding into his voice.

“Exactly!” Dick said before turning around and walking straight through the wall beside the open door. And Jason was… not as surprised by it than he figured he should be, because, after all, _he_ was standing in the very same empty apartment building in Gotham City when he aught to be buried six feet under, so why not just roll with whatever weird shit was thrown at him?

“Right.”

—

Dick didn’t need to sleep, what with being dead and all, but he closed his eyes sometimes and thought that he got pretty close. Like right now, sitting on the couch with his head resting heavily on Jason’s shoulder, he thinks that he can almost feel himself start to nod off, thick tendrils of darkness drifting sweetly into view from behind his closed eyelids. He smiles. Maybe Jason would pick him up and carry him to the bed, let him lay there until he felt like he had really fallen asleep. It was his day after all, it would only be fair.

Jason shifts under him, careful not to jostle him too much, and the sound of the movie cuts out with an audible click. Dick makes a little noise in the back of his throat, of protest or appreciation Jason can’t tell, so he raises his hand to sweep at the hair that’s fallen into his eyes, rubbing at his head softly, comforting, just in case.

“Happy resurrection day Dickie,” he mumbles like Dick’s really asleep, like that’s something he can still do, and Dick feels, if not fully realized, than a little more whole.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhhhhh so again I really can't thank you guys enough for your feedback! That shit really warms my heart its crazy. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope y'all like this chapter- I'm sorry if the ending feels a little rushed, I wanted to get this out by Monday cause school is starting to catch up with me and I'm /stressing/

Dick’s back molar is missing, and as he runs his tongue over the soft tenderness of his gum, he thinks about how it will never not feel fresh. That’s the thing about being halfway in the world of the living and halfway in the world of the dead, Dick thinks, your body stays as it was, lingering, opaque and stagnant in the in-between of all things, and nothing ever heals, not really. The tooth had fallen out a week before he died and he can still remember how he hadn’t known it was loose until he and Bruce had gotten home from patrol that night and Alfred had given them each something to eat.

_“Oh dear,” Alfred says, voice calm and even as he lets go of Dick’s chin. “It seems you’ve lost a tooth young sir.” He’s got a bloody rag in his hand and he stands up, legs creaking slightly in the quiet of the cave, so that he can fold it neatly on the counter in the med bay. Dick stands where Alfred left him, waiting for some sort of sign that the older man was done with him, and fidgets slightly in the absence of something exciting to do. When he’s decided that he’s waited long enough, he gives a little nod and runs toward the exit, barely stopping quick enough to hear Alfred call out to him with the same impassive voice:“I do suggest you put that under your pillow before it’s too late.”  
  
And Dick is ready to twirl around and level him with his best ‘I’m a ten year old who knows better’ look, but Bruce is by his side before he can get it just right, placing both hands on his narrow shoulders and ushering him toward the stairs._

_“That’s a good idea, Alfred,”he says, words tight like his face is frozen.“I’ll see that he does just that.”_

_They make it half way up the stairs before Dick starts to worry that his mentor’s silence is less the usual, ‘I’ve got nothing worth saying’ type and more the angry kind. Bruce still has a hand on one shoulder, though he’s relinquished his hold on the other so that they can walk side by side comfortably. Dick looks up at him, his figure looming in the dull light, and feels scared of him for the first time in years._

_“Umm,” he holds on to the sound, letting the air swim around in his mouth and make his lips tingle, “what’s up? You’re not hurt are you? ‘cause if you are I’ll just go ahead and put this tooth under my pillow all by my self, tuck it in real good and everything, scouts honor.” He gives Bruce a little salute here, his tone playful and light despite the looming sense of dread he can feel pooling above his head, poised to crash down and drench him._

_Bruce doesn’t seem to acknowledge his rambling speech, though Dick, who’s grown quite accustomed to Bruce’s isms during the two years he’s spent as ward to the Wayne fortune, doesn’t miss the little intake of breath that rumbles in Bruce’s chest, or the slight quickening of step that almost makes him stumble over the last step before the landing._

_“Bruce?” His voice shakes despite himself._

_And suddenly Bruce isn’t towering over him anymore; he’s falling forward onto his knees with more grace than his bulk would suggest is possible and wrapping his arms around him, his breath pushing up strands of wayward hair on the top of Dick’s head._

_“I’m sorry you got hurt tonight.” Bruce says, voice almost breathless like it gets when he’s just gone toe to toe with uncle Clark on the mats and is trying not to show the stain of it. He raises his hand to cup the back of Dick’s neck gently, holding him just that much closer to himself, and Dick laughs._

_“Bruce, I get hurt all the time, that’s the whole_ thing _,” he wiggles his arms beneath Bruce’s hold in a sort of all encompassing gesture.“Besides, I’ve been waiting for that tooth to fall out.”_

_Again, Bruce doesn’t respond, but he does start to shake, and for a moment Dick thinks that he’s somehow made him do the impossible._

_“Are you crying?” He shakes himself out of Bruce’s arms, panic pricking low in his belly as he puts his hands on either side of Bruce’s face to lift his head up toward his own. Bruce’s eyes are scrunched up, the lines on his forehead heavy like someone has pinched the skin there together and refused to let go. And he’s smiling, mouth stretched wide over his teeth.“You’re laughing? At what? I didn’t say anything half as good as whe-” An audible giggle cuts him off, and Dick shuts his mouth, which is suddenly gapping in a most undignified manner, because my G-d, Bruce really_ is _laughing._

_Bruce presses his forehead to Dick’s for a moment before pulling away entirely and getting to his feet.“Alright chum, let’s put that tooth under your pillow,” Bruce says, brushing some imagined spots of dust off the knees of his sweatpants, his voice still dancing slightly with the bubbling laughs stuck halfway in his throat._

_“I don’t even believe in that kind of stuff anymore Bruce,” Dick, despite his best judgments, whines as he jogs after Bruce, who has started making his way toward Dick’s bedroom._

_“Sure you do, Alfred expects it.” Bruce says, turning his head to look back at Dick and arch a conspiratorial eyebrow at him. Then he raises the tooth in his hand above his head, holding it like a priest holds the unbroken eucharist, and resumes his slow, ceremonial march._

_“I guess if it’s for Alfred…” Dick trails, close enough now that his ear brushes Bruce’s forearm as he joins his makeshift tooth procession. Ever the performer, he grabs onto Bruce’s arm, feeling that their show wouldn’t be complete without that mourning touch, and smiles for a moment before schooling his face into something more befitting of the moment’s sudden solemnity._

_When they get to his door, Bruce steps aside for Dick, letting him open it and lead the way into the room._

_“Would you do the honors?” Dick says, lifting the edge of his pillow and gesturing for Bruce to place the tooth in its rightful place._

_“Of course, of course, it would be my greatest honor.” After he sets it down with a gentle flourish, Bruce goes to stand in line with Dick, clasping his hands together in front of his stomach._

_“It was a good tooth, always there when it was needed-”_

_“A great help in chip eating,” Dick interjects._

_“Right, a great chip assistant,” Bruce adds, nodding, “and a great help in all manner of food related undertakings. There’s so much we could say about its merits and various accomplishments, but it seems most pertinent that we acknowledge its commitment to young Dick Grayson here. It held in there until it could no longer resist the ever alluring pull of freedom, and for that, we thank you, tooth.”_

_“Yes, we thank you.”_

_For a moment they simply stand together in silence, feeling their little show coming to its natural conclusion._

_“That was a nice ceremony, wasn’t it?”  
  
“Sure was,” Dick says, stretching his hands above his head and pressing his shoulder blades together until they give a satisfying pop. A yawn pushes its way up from somewhere deep in his chest and pulls at his face, his eyes and nose crunching up as it reaches its crescendo, and he chuckles a little at its suddenness. “G’night Bruce.”  
  
“Goodnight chum, sleep well,” Bruce says, voice fond,“and don’t forget to brush the rest of your teeth, Alfred will kill me if we have to hold another, premature tooth funeral,” Bruce continues, smiling as he points his finger sternly in Dick’s direction._

_“‘Course,” Dick answers, sending Bruce another salute._

Dick shakes his head to chase the memory from his mind. He sitting on Jason’s propped up bike waiting for him to get back from a meeting with some evil but ultimately harmless goon so that they can go see the new exhibit at the natural history museum and he wants to be in good spirits.

—

Dick is decidedly no longer in good spirits. It’s been thirty minutes since Jason had left, promising he’d be back in five with a wad of cash and a little more peace of mind and Dick can feel himself start to panic. Jason is never late. _Never._

He gets off the bike slowly, his feet hovering a few inches above the ground as he makes his way into the building he had watched Jason enter some time before. Jason didn’t tell him what room his little meeting would take place in, so he spends an agonizing amount of time poking his head through the walls of various peoples’s apartments, scanning for the familiar red helmet and broad shoulders of his brother, before he finally finds him. Or rather, his leather jacket and gun. Both are sitting on the neat coffee table in the living room of an eighth floor apartment and Dick doesn’t know what to do. He’s in the room in a heart beat (ha!) and searching for some sign of a struggle, but he can’t find _anything_ out of order. It’s like Jason had set himself down and promptly disappeared without so much as a cleverly crafted clue left to aid Dick in his rediscovery. And Dick really doesn’t know what to do. He stays, floating, in the center of this little apartment, thinking that his world has, not for the first time, been ripped away from him without warning and again, he’s not _ready_ for it.


End file.
